Westley’s hands were never gentle. They were claims. Orders. Every night blurred into the next, a locked room that smelled of alcohol and sweat and laughter that was not meant to be kind. When I cried David’s name, when I begged like a fool who still believed in rescue, Westley only laughed. He told me David had handed me over. Told me I was free. Free like a thing no one wanted anymore.
When he drank, the cruelty grew louder. He would pull me into the light, make me stand where his men could see. Their eyes stripped me faster than hands ever could. Laughter followed me everywhere. I learned to disappear inside my own body, to float somewhere far above the ceiling, to leave only skin behind.
I did not scream anymore. Screams were currency. Silence was survival.
And now David was behind me, breathing easy, telling himself a story where he was the hero. Where I had been protected. Where my fear was just jealousy dressed up as pain.
“You do not have to be so sharp,” he said coldly. “If Roxanne became his stepmother, that would just invite more gossip. The wedding was only for show. I had to do it so people would stop saying she seduced me. Do you understand?”
I almost laughed.